Second Chances
by lonesomethorn
Summary: We very rarely get second chances in life, and when we do are we brave enough to take them? Athos finds himself faced with that very question. Athos/D'Artagnan slash. *New and expanded version*


**A/N:** This is a revised version of the original story that was published under my former username "Suthernbell85". After reading over this version I've decided to make some edits and add in an additional chapter. For all past readers, I hope you enjoy the new version, and to all new readers, I hope you enjoy this story. Comments are appreciated but not necessary.

**Warning:** This is a **slash **fic between Athos and D'Artagnan (who is 19 in this story). If this sort of fic isn't your cup of tea (which is completely fine) please move along and read something else. Flames will be ignored, as will threats to have this story taken down. However, in the extremely unlikely event this story is removed, you can also find it on my AO3 account.

**Dedication:** This story (and its sequels) is dedicated to **Rainsaber** and **Zuzivlas**. What else can I say to you both except "thank you" for your encouragement and guidance in writing this? This story is for you both, because if it weren't for you I never would have stepped out of my comfort zone and followed through with this idea. "Playing it safe" is never good for a writer, and I'm so glad that your constant encouragement (plus gentle prodding with foam noodles!) made me see this story through in its entirety. Enjoy, and thank you once more! ^^

* * *

**~1~**

"_But how will I know who my soul mate is?"_

"_By taking risks…By risking failure, disappointment, disillusion, but never ceasing in your search for love. As long as you keep looking, you will triumph in the end."  
~Paulo Coelho, 'Brida'_

It was no great revelation. It did not strike Athos like a lightning bolt, as some foolish poet-who most likely knew nothing about real, genuine love-would have described it. Instead it crept up on Athos, slowly making its presence known through the most inconsequential of things.

Athos saw it in the way D'Artagnan would try to goad a laugh-or even the barest glimmer of a smile-out of the older man, even at the expense of his own dignity. He saw it when D'Artagnan would sit up late with Athos sometimes, remaining surprisingly quiet as they shared a bottle of wine in front of the fire. Or how once, when Athos had been caught in the throes of a particularly vicious nightmare, he had jolted awake to find slender but strong arms wrapped around him, a warm shoulder offering him support that he had been too mortified and angry to accept at the time.

He saw it every time D'Artagnan would argue with him, boldly refusing to be pushed away and leave Athos to face an enemy alone, whether it be flesh and blood or dark memories. No matter how hard he tried that damned boy was always in the back of his thoughts and that terrified Athos more than anything had in a very, very long time. A part of him resented D'Artagnan for all of these things. And yet another part of him, one that he had thought had died after _her,_ relished every one of those moments, absorbing them as a dry barren patch of earth would at the slightest hint of rain.

Athos had known Porthos and Aramis for so long that it almost seemed like anything that came before them belonged to a different man's life. That wasn't so far from the truth-Olivier de la Fère had been a naïve and arrogant young nobleman while Athos was nothing more than a common soldier. Athos had been content in the path he had chosen for himself, refusing to look back and dwell on a past that held no happy memories for him. He, Porthos and Aramis fought and brawled with the Cardinal's guards, got drunk on more nights than not and (in the latter two's cases,) wooed beautiful women whenever they had time to spare.

It was a decent life and one any man would be grateful to have. There were far worse fates, as far as Athos was concerned, than fighting for a living and serving the Crown. And yet…Athos still felt loneliness cling to him though he tried his hardest to ignore it. Porthos and Aramis helped to ease the ache but it was a shared loneliness. All three men had no living family to speak of. In many ways they were the only family each other had. The bond that Athos, Porthos and Aramis shared had been strengthened over the years by mutual respect and understanding despite their differences in backgrounds and personalities.

It had been the origin of their motto, "All for one, and one for all." Separate they were just one man, but together the three musketeers were stronger than the sum of their parts. That had not changed when D'Artagnan had barreled into their lives over a year ago. Instead, the trio had found in the young man a renewed belief that there were indeed still people who believed in such things as honour and courage. And so that bond had expanded to include the spirited and passionate young man.

Porthos, the most out-going and vivacious of the trio, welcomed D'Artagnan with open arms, pleased by the boy's strong sense of fair play and honest nature. Athos supposed he could not really blame his friend. He knew full well that he and Aramis could be quite dull more often than not. D'Artagnan probably provided Porthos with some much-needed excitement. Aramis found D'Artagnan's innocence and determination to join the musketeers charming and quickly took the boy under his wing, behaving in much the same way as a teacher would towards a favored pupil. All in all, Porthos and Aramis treated D'Artagnan like a younger brother, gently teasing him at times but always willing to listen and offer counsel whenever D'Artagnan came to them for it.

As for Athos, he had not known what to make of the boy and still didn't. He had at first thought D'Artagnan nothing more than a child-an ignorant country upstart who was too immature and undisciplined to enter into the ranks of Monsieur des Essarts' guards, much less the renowned musketeer corps. He had quickly been proved wrong, however. Looking back, Athos could admit to himself that he was ashamed of making such a rash judgment of the boy. D'Artagnan had his faults-he was hot-tempered, impatient and prone to rushing into situations where even angels feared to tread. But beneath all of that Athos had gradually come to respect the boy's innate honesty, loyalty and incomparable courage in battle.

Athos wasn't certain when respect had matured into fondness and then fondness into something else entirely. All he knew was that it was becoming harder and harder to ignore these…feelings that tried to bubble forth like an underground spring whenever he was in D'Artagnan's presence. Some nights, when he could not sleep and tried to drown his riotous thoughts in wine, Athos would curse the day the boy had come into his life and upended his dull, miserable existence.

But even in his darkest moments Athos knew that he could never truly feel that way. He was grateful for the change D'Artagnan had brought to his life and he knew that Porthos and Aramis felt much the same way. No, what truly haunted him was repeating past mistakes.

Athos' musings were interrupted when Planchet entered the parlour, holding out a letter to him.

"This just came for you, Master. The messenger said it was urgent." Athos nodded and dismissed the lackey. He broke the wax seal with his dagger, recognizing it as Monsieur de Tréville's personal signet. Athos and the others had the day off and he knew that Tréville wouldn't have summoned them unless it was urgent. Apparently their captain wanted to see them immediately.

Athos sighed in resignation. Well, another mission was better than sitting in front of the fire brooding. He gathered up his hat, cloak and gloves and stepped outside where he found Planchet watering a small pot of vegetables. Aramis was trying his hand at gardening but it didn't appear to be going too well, Athos thought as he eyed the drooping plants dubiously.

"Go find Aramis at the Church of St. Michel. He said that he would be there most of the day," he instructed the servant. "Tell him to meet us at Monsieur de Tréville's hotel and that the captain wants to see us immediately."

Planchet nodded and headed off down the street while Athos turned and went the opposite way in search of Porthos and D'Artagnan. The two had gone out for the day, anxious to enjoy the fine autumn weather. It was late October and the harvests from the countryside were pouring into the city along with farmers anxious to sell their crops and animals before the harsh winter set in. D'Artagnan often visited the markets when he had free time. Athos suspected the boy was hoping to meet some of his fellow Gascons. As he made his way down the street Athos wondered if D'Artagnan still felt homesick despite having lived in Paris for over a year now. The boy had been practically chomping at the bit to go visit his parents when he had last been given an extended leave for his nineteenth birthday.

A few well-placed inquiries allowed Athos to find his friends in less than an hour. He knew Porthos and Aramis' favorite haunts and D'Artagnan would likely still be with Porthos. Briefly, Athos wondered why D'Artagnan had not taken the free time to visit with Constance but when Porthos had once asked the boy about their relationship D'Artagnan had skirted the issue. Porthos had not pressed the subject, sensing it was a delicate matter. Athos wondered why he was even concerning himself with the boy's love life as it was certainly none of his affair. Finally after about twenty minutes of searching Athos managed to track down his wayward companions.

A troupe of travelling musicians was playing in one of the squares where a large crowd of people, smiling and dancing, had already formed. Athos gritted his teeth in frustration as he was jostled by the crowd, using his considerable height to look for his friends. He was unsurprised to find Porthos dancing with several women and rolled his eyes in exasperation as he looked around for D'Artagnan.

He finally spotted the boy near the edge of the square, laughing as he watched Porthos' antics. Suddenly a tiny girl of about six darted past D'Artagnan, clearly wanting to join the dancers. She was quickly pulled back by her mother who gently scolded the child and shook her head. The girl frowned in disappointment as she looked back longing at the dancers. D'Artagnan, who had seen all of this, approached the mother and daughter. After a pleased smile and nod from the former he led the delighted child into the middle of the square.

"Got a new admirer there, lad?" Porthos shouted over the music, grinning as he continued to twirl his own partner around. D'Artagnan, who still hadn't noticed Athos lingering at the edge of the crowd, smiled as he spun the girl around.

"That I have, Porthos! And the prettiest one too," he called back before smiling down at the girl, who beamed at D'Artagnan.

Athos leaned back against a wall, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched his friend. He wondered, not for the first time, how such an impetuous and hot-headed young man like D'Artagnan could be so fond of children, let alone have the patience to deal with them. He had put the question to Aramis once who had shrewdly observed that, as an only child, D'Artagnan had probably been lonely growing up in the obscure region of Gascony.

He watched as D'Artagnan twirled the girl around by her wrists, lifting her off of her feet, both of them laughing. The young man threw his head back as he laughed, the sun catching in his dark hair and gilding it to burnished bronze. He set the girl gently back on her feet as the music stopped and led her back to her mother, who thanked the boy warmly.

Suddenly, as if sensing Athos' scrutiny, D'Artagnan turned around and spotted the older musketeer lingering near the square's edge. He smiled and waved to his friend, his blue eyes glowing in the sunlight. As he did Athos felt something deep inside his chest twinge and clench, and he realized with dawning horror what it was. In that moment, Athos knew that he was lost as long-buried emotions suddenly sprang up.

He didn't want D'Artagnan to look at anyone but _him _like that.

He didn't want the boy to _smile_ at anyone else but him like that.

And he wanted to be the only person in the world to put that smile on D'Artagnan's face.

A sudden rush of fear came over him swiftly followed by anger. How dare this…this _boy_ make him feel this way? He was a grown man-a count, for God's sake (no matter that he had renounced his title)! And yet here he was, doing the one thing that he had sworn never to do again-fall in love-and all thanks to a scrawny farm boy!

He glowered at D'Artagnan as the boy approached him. Porthos, who had also spotted Athos, followed close behind.

"Athos! What brings you out on this fine day?" Porthos greeted him, grinning. Athos ignored him and continued to glare at D'Artagnan. "We've received an urgent summons from Monsieur de Tréville," he said, his tone waspish. D'Artagnan's smiled faded. "If you and Porthos are done fooling around, we should be off."

Athos turned on his heel then and went to go fetch his horse from where he had left it tethered near the square's entrance. Porthos and D'Artagnan stared after him before the latter turned to his friend. "What's gotten into him this time?" D'Artagnan asked Porthos, unable to fully conceal the slight hurt in his voice.

Porthos clapped the boy on the back (which nearly knocked him over) and gestured for D'Artagnan to follow him. "Who can say, lad? I am certain it was nothing you did-you know how Athos is. Sometimes he just has bad days, that is all."

D'Artagnan nodded even though he didn't look entirely convinced. Ahead of them Athos heard the hurt in D'Artagnan's voice and tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore the tug of guilt on his gut. He felt badly for snapping at the boy for no reason, but his ever-present urge to protect D'Artagnan was at war with his own desire to protect himself. Love was something Athos was done with forever. He had trusted his heart and soul to someone once before and it had nearly destroyed him.

Never again, Athos swore to himself. Never again.

* * *

"I have seen nothing of these rogues that you are searching for, Monsieurs." The old man said to the musketeers. Athos pinched the bridge of his nose and ground his teeth in frustration. Monsieur de Tréville had sent them on a recognizant mission to track down a band of highwaymen that had been looting and ransacking some of the small villages outside of Paris. It had sounded a simple enough mission at first and Athos had been more than relieved to have something to focus on rather than a certain young Gascon. Porthos had groused a bit about having their day off cut short, but the other three knew that Porthos could not stand men who murdered innocent people and was just as determined as the rest of them to see the villains brought to justice. Aramis had revealed nothing-often times he was unreadable even to those who knew him best-while D'Artagnan had been grim-faced and serious when Tréville had debriefed them on the situation.

"_I know you are all off-duty today, but the nearest garrison commander has informed me that his company has been struck by illness and he does not have any men to spare," _their captain had informed them yesterday morning._ "Thus I am sending you four. I trust you to take care of this matter swiftly."_

And they would have, but none of the locals seemed willing to cooperate and offer any advice as to where the blackguards might be found. They had left Paris over a day ago and so far had nothing to show for their efforts. The fact that the weather was making a turn for the worse didn't help matters either. The brief warm spell of yesterday had been replaced by steel-grey clouds and a cold, sharp wind that had a bite of winter to it. It was growing colder with each hour and they had been scouring the countryside all afternoon for any sign of the highwaymen.

Aramis frowned. "Our captain received word only yesterday that a band of men have been robbing the settlements near this area. Was Monsieur de Tréville misinformed?"

The farmer didn't quite meet Aramis' gaze as he replied. "I do not know what you are speaking of, Monsieur. I have seen nothing."

"Monsieur, if you have been threatened…" Aramis began, his sharp gaze growing even keener.

"I have not been threatened-no one has threatened me! I am sorry, gentlemen, but I cannot help you." The farmer picked up his pitifully small bundle of firewood and turned to go.

"Hold a moment-" Athos began, but D'Artagnan's hand on his arm stopped him. "Let me," he said quietly. Athos frowned but let the younger musketeer do as he requested. D'Artagnan leapt nimbly from his horse and quickly caught up to the old man.

"Listen to me, Monsieur. These men won't stop until they are dead or imprisoned. If you help us, you have my word of honour that we will not rest until we find them and bring them to justice."

Perhaps it was the fact that D'Artagnan was of a similar background to the farmer or just the firm, steady way in which he held the older man's gaze. Either way the man appeared to hesitate. But it was too long for Athos. He turned his horse's head towards the inn they were staying at and called after D'Artagnan over his shoulder.

"Do not waste your breath, D'Artagnan. It is evident that this gentleman values his own skin over the lives of others. Let's be off-we are wasting our time here."

The farmer winced and hurried off down the road, his shoulders hunched against the growing wind. As soon as the man had disappeared D'Artagnan climbed back up onto his horse and swiftly caught up to Athos.

"You were inexcusably rude to that man, Athos!" the younger man snapped.

"Do not lecture me, boy. I have neither the patience nor the will to hear it." Athos kicked his horse's flanks but D'Artagnan was faster and pulled up his own horse to block Athos' path.

"Well, you are going to hear what I have to say whether you wish to or not! Such behavior is unworthy of you, Athos. You are better than that."

Athos hated that D'Artagnan was right but he hated even more that D'Artagnan was disappointed in him. So he did what he did best-he returned the boy's anger with his own.

"That man is a coward! More innocent people could die simply because he would not give us the information that we need." The four musketeers had been disgusted to learn that the highwaymen had already killed six people, including two women and a young child after a group of villagers had dared to stand up to them. Even Athos, the most seasoned and battle-hardened of the group, had been shocked by the callous nature of the killings.

D'Artagnan returned Athos' heated glared with one of his own. "These are simple people, Athos-my people-they are not soldiers and that man was clearly frightened of something. Aramis is right-the men we are searching for have frightened the villagers into remaining silent."

"Then it will be on _their_ heads if more people are butchered whilst we waste our time running all over the countryside!"

"Enough," Aramis said suddenly, who had decided to intervene before one or both of them said something that they would later regret. "It grows late and we are all tired and hungry. We shall find the villains eventually, but for now the best thing would be to get a good night's sleep and a fresh start in the morning."

Athos said nothing-he simply turned his horse's head back to the road and galloped off towards the inn.

"Stubborn arse," muttered D'Artagnan before spurring his own horse after the older musketeer.

Aramis fell back to ride alongside Porthos. "Do you know what has gotten into Athos of late? I have not seen him like this since Venice." He had to raise his voice against the wind, which seemed to be growing sharper with each passing minute.

"Damned if I know." Porthos shook his head and then smirked. "Well, at least D'Artagnan is giving back as good as he gets. Didn't I say from the first that the lad had spirit in him?"

Aramis smiled, but in the back of his head something was gnawing at his mind.

Later that evening Porthos, Aramis and D'Artagnan sat in a secluded corner table at the small inn they were staying at. Athos had retired to the room he was sharing with Porthos, muttering something about a headache and not wanting to be disturbed. A large piece of parchment was spread out between the musketeers, which bore a rough map and several notes in Aramis' elegant hand.

"We've already checked the surrounding areas here and here," Aramis said, tracing his finger along the map. "It seems that our quandary is cleverer than we had first anticipated-they seem to be moving from village to village. My guess is that they are trying to steal as much as they can before winter sets in."

Porthos leaned back in his chair and rubbed his burning eyes. "If we could enlist the local garrison for extra help we would have found the scum and be back in Paris by now."

Aramis nodded and pursed his lips as he studied the map. "What I cannot discern is how we have come across no signs-not a _single hint_-of the men anywhere. All of our reports indicate that there are about a dozen of them. A group that size would surely have left some sort of trail."

D'Artagnan, who had been silent since Athos' departure, suddenly spoke. "What if we are looking too hard?"

Porthos and Aramis both looked up in surprise at their young friend. "How do you mean, lad?" said the former.

"What if the men are not roaming the countryside at all, but hiding in plain sight?"

"That's certainly a possibility," Aramis said, a thoughtful frown on his face. "Go on," he said with an encouraging nod to D'Artagnan.

"There have been no reports of more raids since our arrival yesterday," said D'Artagnan, encouraged by Aramis' vote of confidence. "Which means one of two things-that the villains are no longer in this area, or…"

"Or they are still here somewhere under our very noses."

The three looked up to see Athos descending the staircase. Athos ignored their questioning looks and sat down next to D'Artagnan. "I was hungry," was all he said in explanation. As if on cue, the innkeeper's wife arrived with their dinners and a dusty bottle of wine.

"Thank you," said D'Artagnan, but the woman only looked away and quickly hurried back to the kitchen. Rather than being grateful for the musketeers' presence the villagers had been withdrawn and silent, offering only the barest hospitality and most spartan of accommodations.

Porthos sighed and poked unenthusiastically at his food. "The sooner we find these blackguards the better. I do not think my stomach can endure much more of this fare."

Despite his own frustration at not finding the men yet D'Artagnan found himself smiling a bit. Suddenly he felt eyes on him and turned to find that Athos was looking at him with an expression that was almost…longing. But he surely must have imagined it, because Athos swiftly returned his attention his wineglass and did not look at D'Artagnan again for the rest of the night.

They were up at dawn the next morning, determined to get an early start and find the highwaymen. A thick cold fog had set in overnight and, combined with the drizzling rain, made their chances of finding anything nearly impossible. But that didn't mean they wouldn't do their utmost to track down their quarry.

As the musketeers headed out towards the stables to saddle their horses D'Artagnan could not shake the feeling that he was being watched. Even though the fog and rain made it almost impossible to see more than a few feet in front of him D'Artagnan was certain that he was not imagining things.

"Athos," he said in a low voice, jogging to catch up with the taller man's longer stride.

The older musketeer barely glanced at him but nodded to show that he was listening.

"I think we are being followed," said D'Artagnan, keeping his voice low.

Athos' expression remained calm even as his hand drifted towards the hilt of his sword. "I feel it too. Keep your eyes open."

"D'Artagnan is right," said Aramis from Athos' other side. "The streets are too empty and quiet-unusual for a village in the midst of harvest time." Aramis' quick dark eyes darted back and forth like a hawk searching for prey as he spoke.

"Aye," said Porthos as they entered the small town square. "In fact, this would be the perfect opportunity for an-"

"Ambush," Athos finished grimly as a dozen men in ragged clothing suddenly emerged from behind several buildings and began to surround the musketeers. The four friends formed a tight circle and D'Artagnan couldn't help but allow himself a small smile-this was just like when he had first met his friends over a year ago.

But there was no time for pleasant reminiscing. D'Artagnan turned his full attention to the fight as their opponents rushed them.

Two men were instantly felled by Aramis' daggers, while another two lost their nerve when they caught sight of the distinctive tunics of the king's musketeers. They stopped short and ran off for the safety of the thick woods. Now it was eight again four. The odds were nothing to the musketeers, who had faced much more dire situations in the past. However, it quickly became apparent that their foes had no intentions of being taken alive. They fought with a desperation and ferocity that demanded every ounce of skill the musketeers possessed.

But even then they were no matched for seasoned soldiers. Within minutes the musketeers had cut down another man each. Now that they were evenly matched the remaining highwaymen fought all the more desperately to escape. The largest of the villains-a huge brutish man who was even taller than Porthos-charged at Athos who easily dodged the clumsy attack. The man swung the large club he had been using as a weapon again and this time Athos was not fast enough to get out of the way.

The club connected solidly with Athos' knee and he gasped involuntarily as pain exploded in his limb. Athos' leg buckled and he hit the ground hard, rolling to the side as his opponent again swung at his head. Porthos turned just in time to see Athos fall and quickly finished his own opponent off before engaging Athos' attacker. He managed to kill him after a few blows and only then turned his attention to his friend.

"Athos, are you hurt?" Porthos asked as he helped Athos into a sitting position.

"Fine," Athos gasped, even though his face was white and blanched with pain. "Behind you!"

Porthos turned just in time to see one of the highwaymen remove a pistol from his doublet and aim it at them. But suddenly the man dropped to the ground unconscious, the weapon falling from his limp hand. The two musketeers were astounded to see the farmer they had spoken with yesterday standing with a shovel in his hands.

The old man nodded to the musketeers who stared back at him in amazement. It seemed that D'Artagnan's words from yesterday had given the old man newfound courage. Suddenly one of the remaining highwaymen came up behind the farmer and before either Athos or Porthos could shout out a warning, stabbed the old man in the back with a knife. The farmer gasped and staggered before falling to the ground. The man took off for the woods but D'Artagnan was right behind him, fleet-footed as a deer. He ignored Athos' shouts for him to stop and quickly vanished into the trees.

"Idiot boy!" Athos snarled. He tried to stand and chase after him but fell back to the ground with a groan. Aramis, who had killed the last remaining highwayman, put a restraining hand on Athos' shoulder.

"D'Artagnan can look after himself-trust him."

"I do, it's the other one that I'm worried about!" Athos snapped.

D'Artagnan rushed after the villain, fury coursing through him and lending speed to his fatigued limbs. He had seen the highwayman stab the farmer from behind and was determined not to let the scum get away with such a cowardly act. He put on another burst of speed and threw himself at the man as they entered a small clearing. Both men fell to the ground, wrestling as they struggled to get the upper hand. The other man was not very bigger than D'Artagnan but he still managed to kick the boy off of him. He drew his own sword as he and D'Artagnan circled each other.

"So the king's famed musketeers are now sending boys to do a man's job?" he said, eyeing D'Artagnan contemptuously.

The young musketeer didn't both with an answer. Instead he swung at the man's head with his blade, the metal whistling in the air. His foe managed to avoid serious injury but not before the tip of D'Artagnan's sword sliced across his cheek. The man touched his face and stared in astonishment at the blood on his fingers.

D'Artagnan smiled grimly. "I assure you I am more than capable of dealing with pathetic cowards like you."

The older man snarled in rage and rushed at D'Artagnan again. They parried back and forth until D'Artagnan's opponent managed to pin him to against a tree trunk, their blades locked together.

"I could think of better uses to put you to than fighting, boy."

Then, before D'Artagnan could react, the man roughly grabbed hold of his face and kissed him hard. D'Artagnan, shocked and outraged, brought his knee up and dealt the man a hard blow to his gut. As the man staggered back, wheezing, D'Artagnan pulled his fist that still held his sword and punched him as hard as he could. The man dropped like a stone and before he could recover he found D'Artagnan standing over him.

"Surrender," D'Artagnan said, his chest heaving from exertion but his blade never wavering from where it was pressed against the man's throat.

The man glared at D'Artagnan with a mixture of rage, humiliation and what looked like the slightest hints of fear. He clearly had not been expecting a scrawny boy to be more than a match for him.

"If I choose not to?"

"Then I end your life here and now. The choice is yours."

"You'd kill an unarmed man? I thought you musketeers were men of honour."

D'Artagnan pressed his sword harder against the man's throat until blood showed. "I would gladly make an exception in your case. You already killed an unarmed man yourself. I would lose little sleep in doing the same to you. Make your choice-_now._"

The man glared for a moment longer before tossing his sword to the side. D'Artagnan grabbed the man's collar and hauled him upright. He kept his own blade pressed against the man's throat while he used his free hand to keep the man's arms pinned behind his back in case the man had a dagger hidden on him. As he led his prisoner back through the trees and towards the square D'Artagnan was surprised to find a group of soldiers already there.

"Monsieur," the leader said as he saluted the musketeers. "We're from the local garrison. Our captain sent us to aid you in the search for the rogues that have been plaguing this area."

"I thought your company had taken ill and had no men to spare?" Porthos said from where he and Aramis were still kneeling by Athos' side.

"That is correct, Monsieur, but we are reinforcements. We arrived only last night." The soldier eyed the fallen bodies that surrounded them. "But I can see that the cavalry has arrived too late," he added drily. "You seem to have matters taken care of. But we can still take any prisoners off your hands and see them back to Paris for you."

"Here's one," said D'Artagnan as he shoved his captive towards the soldiers. "And there are two others that ran off-you'd best keep an eye out for them," Aramis added, though his gaze was on D'Artagnan as he spoke. The boy had gone to where the old farmer had fallen after handing over the highwayman.

"We shall, Monsieur. Safe journey back to Paris."

Soon the soldiers and their prisoner were gone, leaving in their wake the eerie silence that always lingers after a battle, no matter how small.

Athos dug his sword point into the earth and used it as leverage to raise himself up off the ground. He hissed when his injured knee flared in protest and was more than grateful for Porthos' shoulder to lean on. Once he had recovered his breath Athos took stock of his companions.

Porthos was not injured but Aramis had a nasty gash across his temple and was already looking pale from blood loss. And D'Artagnan…Athos frowned and looked around.

"Where is D'Artagnan?"

"Over there," said Aramis, nodding to where the boy was kneeling next to a body. Athos could see that D'Artagnan bore a long bloody gash across his shoulders and pulled away from Porthos to limp over to his friend.

As he approached Athos watched as D'Artagnan gently close the eyes of the old farmer who had saved his and Porthos' lives. Guilt burned in his gut but that did not prevent Athos from putting a gentle hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder. The young musketeer looked up at him with eyes that asked the question that he would not voice out loud. _Why do men do such evil things?_

Aramis made the sign of the cross and murmured a brief prayer. The four men stood in silence for a moment until Athos finally spoke.

"Come, let us inform the villagers that there is nothing more to fear. We can do no more here."

* * *

To say that the villagers were grateful for being freed of the highwaymen was an understatement. Where the musketeers had been treated with fear and avoidance before, now they were welcomed and showered with praise. The innkeeper immediately provided them with far more comfortable lodgings while his wife prepared a small feast for their rescuers. While they ate several of the villagers stopped by to shake the musketeers' hands and offer their profound thanks and gratitude. It was only by begging to be excused so that they could retire and see to their injuries that the four companions were able to escape to their rooms.

Porthos all but carried Aramis up the stairs while D'Artagnan put Athos' arm around his own shoulders as he helped him upstairs. It was a sign of just how much pain the older man was actually in when he didn't protest his friend's help. His grip on D'Artagnan's shoulder was like a vice but D'Artagnan said nothing despite his own injury. He was glad to return the aid that Athos had so often rendered to him in the past. Thankfully they made it up the stairs without any mishaps and both men sighed in relief once they were alone and away from all of the fuss.

Their new room was not much bigger than their former one but the quality of the furniture was much better. There were even two nightstands, each with a washbasin and pitcher, as well as a small desk and a bureau to hang their hats and cloaks. A few faded but thick rugs covered the wooden floor, helping to conserve heat. Even the bed sheets were clean and although they were darned and hemmed in several places they were much thicker than their former ones had been. A servant had lit the fireplace earlier and the heat was welcoming after being outside in the cold and damp all day.

D'Artagnan helped Athos over to the bed and the older man sat down with a relieved groan. When D'Artagnan looked at him in concern Athos shook his head. "I am fine-it's bruised but not broken."

The younger man didn't look convinced but decided not to argue. He began to stand but Athos' hand on his wrist stopped him.

"Sit here so that I can see your wound," Athos said, gesturing to the empty space on the bed in front of him.

D'Artagnan frowned with familiar stubbornness. "It's not that deep."

"Even so, it still needs to be cleaned and since Aramis is unable to do so you are stuck with me. Sit," he ordered peremptorily.

The boy did so, albeit a bit awkwardly. D'Artagnan could feel the heat from Athos' body so close against his own, even more so when Athos carefully helped him out of his shirt. D'Artagnan closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, willing the unpleasant memories to disappear.

_The eldest of the trio struck him hard in the mouth and he fell to the ground, his lip bleeding. D'Artagnan struggled to stand but a boot on his chest kept him pinned to the earth._

"_I think this little upstart needs a lesson in manners. What do you say, gentlemen?"_

_Loud, riotous laughter was his answer. D'Artagnan struggled furiously but he was only twelve and did not have the strength to remove the boot from his chest. Hands grabbed his arms and hauled him roughly upright before dragging him over to a nearby creek…_

Athos winced as he was finally able to get a good look at D'Artagnan's injury. The wound was not deep as D'Artagnan had said, but it was quite long and ran across the length of the boy's shoulder blades. It was still bleeding and would probably make raising his arms above his head painful for the next few days.

He took a clean cloth from the nightstand and dipped it in the water bowl before carefully dabbing at the blood, but stopped when D'Artagnan jerked.

"Does it hurt?"

"No…"

"You're trembling."

"I-I'm cold." D'Artagnan would not look at him as he spoke and instead kept his gaze squarely on the wall.

Athos suddenly realized what was wrong and cursed himself. He and the others had noticed that D'Artagnan grew tense whenever someone came up directly behind him. Even Planchet had made D'Artagnan startle badly one time when he had accidentally bumped into the boy's back while carrying an armful of dishes. The older musketeers had never brought the subject up out of respect for D'Artagnan's privacy, but Athos could not help but feel that there was something more to the boy's reaction than just a nervous tick.

Well, there was no opportunity like the present.

He continued to clean the wound and it was only when Athos felt D'Artagnan relax under his gentle touch that he finally voiced the question that had been nagging at him for over a year.

"I would ask a question of you, but it is of a rather personal nature. You need not answer if you do not wish to."

"You could ask anything of me, Athos," D'Artagnan said immediately, and despite his still tumultuous feelings Athos couldn't help but feel a rush of gratitude that D'Artagnan trusted him so completely.

"Why do you grow nervous whenever someone stands directly behind you?"

"I…it was that obvious?" The younger man stuttered as his face flushed. Athos shrugged as he applied a bandage to D'Artagnan's back. "You hide it well. Anyone else would not have noticed."

When D'Artagnan didn't immediately answer a disturbing thought suddenly struck Athos. Was he making D'Artagnan uncomfortable in this very moment? He hoped not-the only thing that had been on Athos' mind was ensuring that the boy was not more seriously injured. The very idea of him making D'Artagnan uneasy in his presence made Athos nauseous.

When the silence began to grow uncomfortable Athos decided that he would not demand information that the boy was clearly unwilling to share. "Forgive me, I should not have asked such a personal question."

"No, it is not that. I just…" D'Artagnan sighed as his gaze grew distant.

Athos waited for D'Artagnan to continue. It was a difficult thing to keep his impatience in check, but somehow he sensed that whatever D'Artagnan was trying to tell him was unpleasant to say the least. Finally the boy spoke, his voice soft and low.

"When I was about twelve three noblemen-they were probably the same age that I am now-were passing through Gascony. One day I was returning from an errand and passed them on the road. The leader demanded that I stop and kneel to him and address him as 'my lord', even though I had never laid eyes on him until that day.

"When I refused the leader hit me and knocked me to the ground. He said that he would forgive my insolent tongue if I admitted that I was the son of a worthless, no account farmer."

Athos listened in silence as D'Artagnan spoke, a mixture of anger and pride welling up inside of him. Anger at the cowards who would attack an innocent boy for no other reason than to flaunt their own power, and pride at D'Artagnan for standing up to such abuse.

"I would have rather died than insult my father and told him so. They did not take that well and dragged me to a nearby creek. They forced my head under the water and held me there until my chest was on fire with the need to breathe. Then, right before I passed out, they would pull me up and demand an apology. Each time I refused they forced my head back under.

"I truly thought they were going to kill me…" D'Artagnan paused and drew in another deep breath. "I must have blacked out for want of air, because the next thing I knew I was lying on the ground and the men were gone. I think they were afraid that they had killed me and had fled out of fear."

"What did your father have to say about what happened?"

"I did not tell him at first, but after he was woken the third night in a row by my nightmares he finally got the story out of me."

"And?"

D'Artagnan shivered at the memory. He sometimes forgot that his father had been a soldier and had killed men before exchanging that life for the simpler one of a farmer. But that night when he had finally told his father the truth, between sobs and wrapped in the safety of his father's arms, he had seen the warrior his father still was deep down.

"I have never seen my father so angry, Athos. That very night he went to the inn where the noblemen were staying. I was never sure of what happened, but years later the innkeeper said that they left that very night, looking as though the Devil himself were after them."

Athos said nothing after D'Artagnan had finished his tale. Rage was pounding through every fiber of his being. It abhorred him that the nobility that he had been raised into would produce such depraved cowardice that saw no shame or dishonour in attacking an innocent and helpless child. It made Athos all the more firm in his belief that he had done right when he had renounced his title and cut off all ties with his own father.

His thoughts were interrupted when D'Artagnan spoke again. "I know that it is cowardly of me to still feel fear over a memory-" the younger man began, misinterpreting Athos' silence for disapproval.

Athos seized his chin in one hand and turned D'Artagnan's face towards him.

"They were the cowards, not you. You bested them, D'Artagnan-do you hear me?"

The boy nodded, his eyes very dark and wide in the dim candlelight. A strand of hair fell into his eyes and Athos brushed it away with his free hand. His then slid the same hand down D'Artagnan's face and brushed his thumb across the boy's bruised lower lip. He touched D'Artagnan's face as gently as if the boy was made of spun glass and not flesh and blood.

When Athos made to drop his hand D'Artagnan kept it pressed against his cheek with his own hand.

"I am fine, Athos," he said quietly.

"You should not have spared that bastard's life. Why did you?"

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Death by the sword is too good for men like that. Besides, it is far better that he live with the humiliation of having been defeated by a mere 'boy'." D'Artagnan added this last part with a smirk. Athos snorted but he wasn't able to keep his own lips from twitching in a rare smile. For a moment they sat in a companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

"Athos, may I in turn ask you a question?" D'Artagnan said hesitantly.

Athos shrugged. "I suppose it is only fair that you do. Go on."

"Is…is something troubling you?"

When Athos did not immediately answer D'Artagnan pressed on, afraid that Athos would shut him out again as he had done so many times before.

"If there is, I would like to help. I do not wish to see you unhappy, Athos." D'Artagnan unconsciously put a hand on the older man's knee as he spoke. Athos opened his mouth to respond but found that no words would serve him. Instead all he could focus on was those dark eyes and the heat from D'Artagnan's hand on his knee.

"Athos?"

The older man suddenly realized that he had been staring and glanced away. "I scarcely know myself, D'Artagnan," Athos finally said. He could not tell D'Artagnan the truth and risk losing the boy's trust and respect. The thought was nearly unbearable. So instead Athos gave the only answer that he could.

D'Artagnan frowned but thankfully did not press the matter. Instead, he turned back around and let Athos finish tending to the few other minor scrapes he had earned earlier that day. Eventually Athos felt D'Artagnan sag against his chest and when his head dropped onto the older man's shoulder Athos realized with a start that D'Artagnan had fallen asleep. He sighed in defeat as he gazed at the young man's sleeping features.

'_Damn you, boy'_, he thought. _'What have you done to me?'_

Athos doubted he would be able to sleep but decided that he should try anyway. He carefully extracted himself from behind D'Artagnan and laid him down on the bed. D'Artagnan murmured something unintelligible but did not wake. He simply rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow.

Athos pulled off his shirt despite the cold night air (he always slept better when he was cool) and snuffed out the candles before lying down next to D'Artagnan. He would have much preferred to share a bed with Porthos or Aramis, given his volatile emotions of late, but the two were sharing a room so that Porthos could wake Aramis periodically to ensure that the former priest was not concussed.

'_And they all think that __**I**__ am a mother hen,'_ Athos thought as he pulled the covers over himself.

He had thought that his own raging emotions and heavy thoughts would rob him of sleep, but their fight with the highwaymen had left Athos exhausted and drained. And though he was reluctant to admit it, the warm presence of D'Artagnan's body so close to him was comforting. He rolled onto his back facing away from D'Artagnan and was asleep within moments.

Athos wasn't certain at first what had woken him-it was not yet dawn and it was far too early for even an early riser such as him to be awake. It took Athos a few moments to realize that the warm, tickling sensation against his bare shoulder that had disturbed him was D'Artagnan's breath.

The boy had rolled over in his sleep and was pressed close against Athos, no doubt attracted to the warmth of his larger frame. His face was hidden half by his hair, half by Athos' chest. At some point during the night Athos had turned so that he was facing D'Artagnan, his free arm wrapped securely around the younger man's waist. Their legs were tangled together and Athos felt a jolt of alarm at their positions.

That, and the fact that he was more aroused than he could ever recall being.

D'Artagnan suddenly stirred against him and pressed his face more firmly against Athos' chest. He nearly groaned out loud at the feeling of D'Artagnan's warm breath against his bare skin and then bit his lip hard to keep from making any further noise. A mixture of shame and desire flooded through him. Sweat broke across his brow and upper lip and Athos knew that he had to leave immediately before he did something that he would never forgive himself for.

Athos slipped from the bed as quietly as he could for a man of his height and girth. He paused only long enough to tuck the thin blankets more securely around D'Artagnan and add another log to the dying fire before slipping out of the inn and setting off for the woods, ignoring the pain from his swollen knee. Perhaps it was foolish of him, given that some of the highwaymen might still be out there, but Athos had his sword on him and continued down the road unafraid. He would have almost welcomed such an encounter-anything to distract him from his tumultuous thoughts and raging emotions.

He continued walking until the sun had breached the horizon and the golden light of dawn was filtering in through the trees. Athos finally stopped when he reached a small glade and sank down onto a fallen, moss-covered log. He dropped his face into his hands and let out a muffled groan. His eyes burned with exhaustion and his body ached with fatigue from their skirmish the day before. But any physical discomfort Athos felt was paltry compared to the self-loathing that raged within him.

The boy who had charged into his life over a year ago looked to Athos for guidance, for advice and a comforting shoulder when life as a soldier showed its darker side. How could he possibly degrade that sort of trust with his own base wants? Had it been only last night that D'Artagnan had fallen asleep in his arms, completely trusting and unaware of Athos' inner turmoil? Hadn't D'Artagnan trusted him when he had told Athos his experience from childhood?

And here he sat, painfully aware of his physical desire that even now grew as he thought of the younger man. Those clear, brilliant eyes…the warmth of D'Artagnan's breath against his skin…the feel of his hand on his knee…all of it was permanently etched onto Athos' memory and in his heart. He could admit that much to himself at least-that he wanted D'Artagnan as he had wanted no other, not even Milady.

It had been easy enough at first to dismiss his growing fondness for the boy as mere affection-that his protectiveness and constant desire to be near D'Artagnan was simply a natural response to their differences in age and worldly experiences. It was completely understandable, Athos had tried to convince himself, that he would develop a sort of fatherly affection towards D'Artagnan.

Athos had almost managed to convince himself but after last night he knew that it was a pathetic attempt to ignore his own feelings.

A father's eyes did not follow D'Artagnan the way his did.

A father did not feel his heart quicken whenever D'Artagnan touched him or smiled at him.

And a father absolutely did not hunger for more of those touches and so much more.

Athos had never felt this way towards a man before. Now that he took the time to consider it, his emotions had nothing to do with the fact that D'Artagnan was a man, and a very handsome one at that. No, it had everything to do with D'Artagnan simply being…well, _D'Artagnan._ Even if D'Artagnan had been a woman Athos was certain he would still feel the same way towards his young friend.

D'Artagnan's passionate nature drew Athos like a moth to a flame, and something cold and dead inside him longed to return to the warm bonfire that was D'Artagnan's spirit.

Athos sat there until the sun had fully risen and the air had grown slightly warmer. A sound made him look up and he stood, his hand straying towards his sword. He relaxed when he saw that it was only Porthos.

"There you are," he said, huffing in annoyance. "What are you doing out here, Athos? Brooding again?"

Athos scowled and returned his gaze to the trees. "Leave it be, Porthos."

The other man frowned and narrowed his eyes at Athos, who looked as if he had barely slept at all last night. The two of them had known each other since they were D'Artagnan's current age and while Porthos loved to play the fool he certainly wasn't one. He knew when Athos was in need of talking to someone, even if his friend would never admit it.

"You always were a bad liar, Athos. Something is on your mind-care to share?"

For a moment it looked as though Athos would actually give in and talk to him, but then he frowned and shook his head.

Porthos sighed. "Very well, then. Aramis and D'Artagnan are waiting for us," he said as they began walking towards the main road. "Let's find them so we can be off. The sooner we get back to Paris the better. It is growing colder by the hour and I have had enough of the country for quite a while."

Despite his dark mood Athos almost smiled. Porthos had always hated the countryside and made no secret of it. Athos suspected it was because his fines clothes were in constant danger of getting dirtied, as well as the lack of women and fine wine.

They found their companions waiting for them, already dressed for the return journey back to Paris. D'Artagnan was holding the reins of Athos' stallion and smiled when he saw the older man.

"Athos, there you are! I-I mean we-were worried about you-" D'Artagnan began, but Athos cut him off.

"Mind your own business, boy," he said, his shame and physical desire still fresh in his mind. He could not meet the younger man's eyes as he mounted his horse and kicked Boreas into a trot.

Who was he fooling? Athos was damned and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.


End file.
